


Gilligan's Island but if Gilligan's Island was a gritty CW reboot

by JukeboxJulia



Category: Gilligan's Island
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Gilligan's Island - Freeform, also i kind of secretly want Dark Gilligans Island, basically this is a callout for riverdale and probably the new nancy drew series, god knows im not actually taking this seriously so dont expect too much real grit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19185469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JukeboxJulia/pseuds/JukeboxJulia
Summary: The title pretty much says it all. Gilligan, the Skipper, the millionaire and his wife, the movie star, the Professor and Mary Ann all get stranded on an island. There's romance, there's danger, there's a through plot, a little bit of a mystery. Basically what a CW reboot of Gilligan's Island would look like if the episodes were chapters rather than, you know, TV episodes.





	1. Murphy's Law (Pilot)

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I doing this, you ask? I'm asking that, too.
> 
> I mean, this is semi-intentionally going to be a trainwreck. We start with the Skipper highkey depressed, Professor and Mary Ann having an illicit affair, Ginger as a drug addict, and the Howells having been separated for years. Honestly, I've done everything but inexplicably make Gilligan a gang leader. Well, okay, to be fair, I do actually have a plan for the storyline, so I'm actually a bit ahead of the CW in that regard.
> 
> Anyway, for real, drop a comment with every reference you caught to the original Gilligan's Island show. Ten points per reference.

**101: "Murphy's Law"**

_“Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”_

Summer nights lasted so long. The Hawaiian humidity crept into every corner of the bar the old skipper frequented, where dirty countertops were sticky with alcohol and sweat. Outside, his first mate waited faithfully, one year too young to enter the bar. For that, the old skipper was inwardly grateful.

This was no place for anyone with a single shred of innocence left.

_“This, of course, raises questions about potential.”_

Thurston Howell III sucked on a cigar. He gazed out into the crowd—young women, young men, all of them seemingly without a care in the world. For the night, he was one of them, if only for his image. There was champagne, wine, vodka, all the finest reserves, and money flowing like blood.

His wife was miles away, probably hosting a far more eloquent party, probably making good use of his money.

She was the last thing on his mind.

_“There are practically infinite ways anything could go wrong.”_

_Ginger Grant._ The name everyone knew. The face, the perfect body, the child star who grew into a redheaded bombshell right there in the public eye.

The movie star.

The sweetheart seductress.

The addict.

_“Does the universe know which is the worst?”_

The university professor looked out at the classroom, let them ponder the question for a moment before continuing.

“Murphy’s Law is a simple phrase that leads to a veritable array of logical contradictions and philosophical impossibilities. Objects—an innocent die, for instance—would have an agenda. Motives.”

 “Objects, of course, are just objects. The universe does not work against us. It is we who create chaos, who submit to errors.”

He skimmed the room again, avoided meeting one pair of wide eyes.

“Only us.”

As the other students—bored, dull-eyed, and sleep-deprived—shuffled out of the classroom to continue, move on with their day, their lives, the Professor began to pack his bag.

As if he could be that lucky.

Indeed, something was about to go very wrong.

“Roy?”

The Professor froze with one arm halfway to his bag, the heavy binder in his hand weighing it down.

“Please, Mary Ann—uh, Miss Summers—in the classroom, it’s Professor Hinkley.”

“Oh, I’m awfully sorry, Professor,” she corrected herself. _Sweet girl._ “I was just hoping we could talk about… things.” Her voice lowered unconsciously, but somehow kept its hopeful twinge.

“Alright, well, come in during office hours—”

“Actually  I was thinking maybe something else,” Mary Ann said with a playful, conspiratorial tone. She slipped the Professor an envelope. “Keep that to yourself.”

And then she breezed out of the classroom as though nothing had happened.

The Professor realized he was holding his breath, then released it with a huff. He tore open the envelope, breathing still strained from stress and… something else.

The moment he opened the envelope, he could smell her. She had dusted the paper inside with her perfume, he realized as the scent of ambergris and alcohol consumed him. A strange combination of excitement and dread crept through his veins as he read the contents in the emptied classroom.

_Roy,_

_I’m a simple girl. I’m from Kansas, and the one crazy thing I’ve ever done is going to school in Hawaii, so far from home. I’m studying agriculture (but your class is by far my favorite!) so that I can work my best on my father’s farm. I’ve had steady boyfriends before, but nothing’s worked out._

_I’ll be blunt. I’m not looking for a secret relationship. I’m not looking for hookups after hours in the dark._

_I think what we have is real. I never would have sought you out if I didn’t think we could have something real._

_I know there’s a little age gap and a big issue regarding our status, but I want to talk about it, at least._

_I want you, plain and simple._

_Meet me at Kona Café at 5 tonight if you’re willing to talk._

_All my faith,_

_Mary Ann_

Outside, the hallway buzzed. Fellow professors, superiors, students wandered the halls. Hundreds of people who could never know. Mary Ann was no doubt among them, carrying their heavy secret.

 

“Mr. Howell?”

Howell was still bleary-eyed from sleep (and bourbon), but he opened one eye at the sound of his assistant’s voice.

“Wh—”

“Mr. Howell!” The assistant’s voice was harsher now. Not abnormal, but it made Howell straighten up a bit.

“What?” Howell reluctantly sat up in his silk sheets, surveyed the million-dollar bedroom he’d crashed in the night before.

“There’s… a bit of a problem.”

“Out with it, then.”

“It’s an online confession.”

“Get to the _point,_ boy.”

“It seems one of your… _conquests_ …” At that, Howell rolled his eyes. “…has publicly retold the story of when they met you.”

That got Mr. Howell’s attention. A moment to process the information, then, “How bad is it?”

“We can control it. Your company’s public relations team is on it with a wad of cash, all you have to do is sign a couple papers and hopefully the post will be taken down or discredited.”

“Thank God.”

“But…” the assistant was hesitant, his voice dropping the way it did when he knew Howell was about to be unhappy.

“But _what_?”

“ _But_ , we can’t undo what’s already been put out there. We need to do damage control.”

“Meaning?”

His assistant sighed. “You need to show the public real love. Love for your _wife_.”

Howell grimaced, opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

“There’s nothing more romantic than Hawaii at sunset.” Howell’s assistant’s gloved hands produced one slim piece of paper: a boat ticket. “I’ve arranged a romantic boating trip for you and the missus. The ocean, sunset, starlight, music. _Fine wine._ ”

“I’m sure it won’t be fine enough. Sounds dreadfully commonplace,” Howell said, pushing away the ticket.

“Exactly.” His assistant foisted them toward Howell again. “You’ll be seen. The fact of you two sharing a romantic evening might be enough to displace the mere claim of your infidelity.”

Howell scowled, thought about consulting the old teddy bear beside him.

His assistant wouldn’t have it. “The whole trip shouldn’t take more than three hours. It’ll sail out to Maui and then back again. If you _must_ , you and the missus can cut the trip short. Get off in Maui and sleep there.”

“Certainly not together.”

“Of course not. You can take the house, and I can arrange for your wife to sleep in the nicest hotel the island has to offer.”

 _The house?_ “Oh, yes.” Mr. Howell remembered. “I forget about our house in Maui.” That settled it. If a clean reputation meant a mere three hour tour, Howell could handle it. “I’ll meet you there, then.” He dismissed his assistant with a wave of his hand.

“I’ll begin packing your bags.” Packing for a Howell was no small task, so he left immediately, leaving Mr. Howell still lying in bed, still a bit drunk from the night before, and anxious to the core.

 

 _Louise_.

 _She_ was the one who goes on a boat trip.

_Louise goes on a boat trip. Louise gets drunk? Louise falls overboard._

Didn’t that happen in the third _Power Fantasy_ movie? She could no longer remember. It had been a long time ago, and the third one, according to critics and audiences alike, suffered a huge drop in quality.

Ginger Grant shook her head. If it was Louise who had gone on a boat trip so many years ago, why was it Ginger who was holding a boat ticket?

She glanced around, disoriented but not yet afraid. This was becoming the norm, blurred lines between reality and fiction. No cameras. No crew. No director in a big folding chair shouting through a bullhorn, telling her what to do.

Ginger felt a pang of disappointment. She was on her own.

Alone in a trashy hotel room that reeked of alcohol and maybe sex. Hard to tell which scents were new and which had been there when Ginger checked in. Either way, she needed a shower.

The sound of the water flowing was like static in her ears, and when she stepped under the flow, it felt like static on her skin. Irritated, she tried to remember why she had bought a boat ticket.

 _Six_ boat tickets, that is. She mused for a moment, wondered which five people she had imagined joining her. She couldn’t remember all the peripheral roles, Louise’s story in the film. Maybe she had five friends. Ginger would have to check the script.

Speaking of which, she remembered with relief that it was Saturday. _Freedom._

After minutes of scrubbing herself with the smallest bar of soap known to man and emptying the single ounce of shampoo allotted by the hotel into her red hair, Ginger realized that she wasn’t getting much cleaner in the shower; even it felt dirty, it was probably a more popular hookup spot than the bed.

She shut off the water and wrapped herself in the ratty towel, trying not to think of what the last person to use it might have been like, how grotesque.

She was a goddamn movie star, Ginger thought bitterly. She shouldn’t have to endure these conditions. She shuffled back into the bedroom, where she’d left her purse and the six boarding passes.

_Boarding Pass_

**_S.S. Minnow, Exotic Trip_ **

**_Depart:_ ** _Honolulu (Oahu): 1800._

 **_Arrive:_ ** _Kaunakakai (Molokai), Lanai, Kahoolawe, Kahului (Maui), Honolulu (Oahu)._

**_THIS IS YOUR TICKET TO BOARD, SEA YOU SOON!_ **

Apparently, she could have her pick of spending the weekend on five different Hawaiian islands. Ginger grinned. Perks of shooting a movie on set.

Why not live like Louise? Get a little drunk, take a little trip…

Ginger smiled and held one of the tickets to her chest. 

She would only need the one.

 

Gilligan was nervous. Never a good sign.

He was twenty years old and a screw-up. That was it, that was the truth. He was lucky to have the Skipper’s support, but he would be luckier to make it through the evening without spilling soup or wine on the passengers.

One of which was a movie star.

 _Two_ of which were billionaires.

Gilligan’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t even old enough to be drinking the wine they’d serve; why had the Skipper placed so much faith in his little buddy?

“Skipper—” Gilligan started the question as his captain made his way out of the bar. The bar Gilligan was a year too young to even set foot in.

“All set,” the Skipper grumbled. He wasn’t upset with Gilligan, Gilligan knew. He was just upset. About what, he had never said. “Remind me what tonight is?”

“Wine and dine tour across the islands,” Gilligan said dutifully. “Small trip, but, um, I was looking at the ticket sales, and there are some pretty big names.”

“Oh, great,” Skipper said sourly. “I hate this one. All the tourists asking if they can tour the islands, if we can pick them up later, getting drunk and silly or cranky… Whose idea was this, anyway?”

“It must be popular because—”

“And it goes till the wee hours of the morning. Ugh! Why can’t everyone just get off in Maui and be done with it?”

“Skipper, the Howells are going to be on the trip. And Ginger Grant!”

That got Skipper’s attention. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, stunned. “The Howells? _Ginger Grant?_ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, Gilligan.” The Skipper was already making a game plan in his head, Gilligan could tell. He smiled inwardly, grateful to have such a man as his mentor. “Here’s what we’ll do. You go home and grab us some extra nice clothes to put on when the ship sets out. I’ll run down to the liquor store and get us some exceptional booze. And, well, what do movie stars like?”

“Movies?”

“Movies,” Skipper looked annoyed and Gilligan knew he’d given the wrong answer. “Right, well, since we can’t play movies on the ship, why don’t we just stick with the nice clothes and booze?”

“Alright.” Gilligan paused. “But, Skipper, shouldn’t we treat all our passengers like millionaires and movie stars? The best of the best.”

The Skipper let out a long, annoyed sigh. “Well, sure, we _should_ , but some folks just have higher standards.”

“Hmm. I guess you’re right.”

“And Gilligan?”

“Yes, Skipper?”

“Do _not_ foul anything up on this trip.”

“Yes, Skipper.”

The five hours before the tour started crawled by agonizingly slowly. Gilligan checked and rechecked the meals for the night (steak or fish dinners, almost entirely prepared; why a billionaire couple and a movie star would want reheated, second-tier steaks was beyond Gilligan). He checked the ship’s wine rack, below deck, that housed over 100 bottles for all the future tours. Surely none would be vintage enough for the Howells. He hoped Skipper knew what he was doing.

1800 and Gilligan was under strict orders from the Skipper to act as though the next voyage of the S.S. Minnow was like any other. Still, Gilligan could hardly contain his nerves. He felt dreadfully underdressed; he hadn’t thought to dress a step above a red collared shirt.

1830 and the ship was sailing. Gilligan hadn’t seen any of the passengers yet—the Skipper was the one to take their boarding passes. Gilligan waited patiently for the meals to heat, and heard a crackle from the radio.

Skipper, calling from the wheel.

“Little Buddy? Over.”

Gilligan braced himself for the worst.

“Here, Skipper, over.”

“You’re only going to need to heat up fourteen dinners. There are a few empty seats on the ship. Over.”

“Oh. Okay. Over and out.” Gilligan hung up the radio as he had a million times. Now, he was shaking with anticipation to meet the passengers. A half an hour crept by as the meals heated, and Gilligan made sure to bring out the Howells’ meals first, as the Skipper had ordered before they set out.

“Now, I must confess that I find you more radiant and lovely than first imaginable, but the ugly truth is that—”

Across the table from Ginger Grant, who was to receive her dinner third, a man in a light blue dress shirt was speaking softly to an adorable girl with black pigtails. Gilligan tried not to eavesdrop—the Skipper had said it was rude—but it was hard not to overhear when the girl screamed.

 _Bad breakup?_ He made a mental note to serve the girl some of the fancy wine the Skipper had purchased, even if he had claimed that it was only for the Howells and the movie star.

“Oh—” the girl let out a sort of choked cry, as if she’d just realized the terrible noise she made. When she spoke again, she whispered, but actually sounded excited. “That’s Ginger Grant!”

“That’s whom?” her apparent date asked. Had he been living under a rock for the past few years?

“Ginger Grant!” the girl repeated quietly as Gilligan brought Ginger’s dish closer. Except for a quick glance when the girl had screamed, Ginger didn’t seem to be listening in to their conversation. He dropped off her dish with a smile before retreating to the kitchen.

 _Gilligan, meeting a movie star!_ He could have screamed like the girl at the other table.

 

When their food came, the Howells still had not said more than three words to each other. The limo had picked up Mr. Howell first, Mrs. Howell fifteen minutes later. When they were both together, the paparazzi had been “anonymously tipped off” and by the time the couple got to the docks, a healthy handful of photographers were waiting.

Wordlessly, the Howells held hands as they made their way onto the ship. They exchanged a kiss—not too long, not too brief—before boarding, as agreed.

The publicity of it all would have made a regular couple uncomfortable, and because Howell hadn’t so much as seen his wife in five years, the entire ordeal made him squirm.

Apparently, the boat trip wouldn’t be enough to convince the public that Howell wasn’t a slimeball who cheats on his wife. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, Howell’s team insisted they be seen together in public all week.

At least they’d sleep in separate beds, across the house.

It occurred to Howell as his meal arrived that, even though there didn’t appear to be any cameras on board the ship, there were at least a dozen pairs of eyes on them.

Cutting into his steak, Howell forced a smile at his wife. “How have you been?” he asked, his face bright but his words quiet and cautious.

“I could sleep with other men if I wanted to.” Lovey Howell clearly had the same intentions as her husband; she spoke with venom, but kept her face lively and content. “I, apparently, am the only one to care about the Howell-Wentworth reputation.”

Howell couldn’t think of a refute, so he gave her a tremendous fake smile and leaned back in his chair, resigned to eating in silence once again.

 

“That’s Ginger Grant!” Mary Ann squealed. “I’m sure of it!” She was so flooded with excitement that she had almost forgotten what was about to happen.

She was sweet, but not stupid. She could tell from the moment the Professor had arrived that he intended to end things that night. The thought made her heart sink.

Seeing her favorite movie star lifted it right back up.

“Who?”

Mary Ann turned back to Professor, pointedly dropped her jaw. “What, you’ve never seen _The Rain Dancers of Rango Rango_?”

“The _what_?”

“ _Bimbofication_?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _Bimbofication_! People are talking Oscars!”

“Or, come on, _Power Fantasy_? That was a big movie. It’s a classic!”

“I can’t say I watch many movies. I find myself overbooked with classes, research, and writing. I don’t even own a television.”

“Oh.” Mary Ann wasn’t sure what to say. She found the Professor’s devotion to science and fascination with the world inspiring, endearing, but she was beginning to realize that they might not have much in common. “So what do you do for fun?”

“Mary Ann, I teach twelve classes, I help out at the research lab, and I am compiling a book of my academic writings. I don’t have time for fun.”

Mary Ann recoiled, and she could see in the Professor’s face that he realized what he had said.

“Usually.” Professor picked at his fish. “I… I do enjoy our time together.” He took a deep breath. Things were about to get bad, Mary Ann realized. “But this is just one more reason we can’t be together. I am consumed by work. I was lonely that night and I didn’t realize what I was doing…”

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“That you didn’t realize what you were doing. It wasn’t an _accident_.”

“No…” the Professor fumbled. “Not, not like that. I didn’t realize who you were. And I had a rare free night, and I didn’t realize you were a student until it was nearly too late.”

“I recognized you right away. I said ‘It’s nice to see you again.’” Mary Ann crossed her arms. “Who did you think I was?”

“I have a lot of students. The university is criminally underfunded and I teach _twelve_ different classes…”

 

For a pauper’s trip, the S.S. Minnow had a beautiful view at sunset. When the light hit her just right, Mr. Howell could see his wife for who she was years ago. Young. Beautiful. Spirited.

The truth is that he had no idea who she was anymore.

“What have you been up to?” Mr. Howell asked, surprising himself with the question. Maybe it was the fact that he was so used to making conversation with lovely ladies, maybe Mrs. Howell was just another in a long line of beautiful people.

But she looked surprised, too. “Is someone still staring?” she asked, her voice low.

Howell considered lying. “No. I’m just curious as to what my wife is up to these days. How you’ve been spending my money,” he added, just to stay in character. Of course, he knew exactly how she’d been spending his money. Their marriage, which was a beautifully-constructed lie from the start, had been very clear about how she was to spend Howell money and how he was to spend Wentworth money. The goal, of course, was to have more in the end. Howell never had trouble with the end goal.

Lovey, on the other hand…

In the first ten years, he’d seen her spending every penny she could spare (without intense scrutiny from her relatives and, well, himself) on charity cases.

Those numbers had been falling off in the recent years, though. Howell wondered if it was something the Wentworths squelched or if his wife had just grown out of her charitable whims.

In any case, he already knew that Lovey was mainly working on her culture. Theatre, galleries, cotillions. She was actually the kind of person Mr. Howell pretended to be when he was in public. He was glad the media, the most influential families tended to gravitate to her rather than him. After all, she loved a good interview, and always welcomed people into her homes with open arms.

Howell wondered if she would welcome him back, should he ever need to retreat to her.

Probably not. “I’ve been becoming my best self.” Her voice was ice.

“No more charity work?”

“No,” she said curtly, which made Howell smile. A frugal wife, he thought, is the best kind.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s been too long.”

His wife looked confused, maybe a bit angry.

Slightly scared of her, Howell continued. “Maybe it’s just the evening sky talking, but I wouldn’t mind staying on this ship a bit longer.”

“We’re supposed to get off in Maui,” she reminded him.

“I can get my pilot to fly us there.”

“Our pilot,” Lovey corrected him.

“It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen the ocean.” Mr. Howell was almost awed by its expanse, the sun setting pink along the water, the music floating loftily from the speakers on the little ship. With another drink, he might even find it a religious experience. Even sober, Howell had to admit that even though the ship was _cheap,_ it was admirable for cutting through the endless ocean.

The whole experience was downright quaint.

“I want to stay here,” Mr. Howell said, more to the ocean than to Lovey. “Just a little longer.”

_Forever._

Twenty years ago, Lovey would have rolled her eyes. She’d been utterly unreserved then. Now, her face only tensed, and she said quietly, “Fine. Anything to keep you in this world a tad longer.”

Whatever _that_ meant.

 

Skipper wasn’t upset about not seeing the celebrities up close and personal. He had other things on his mind. Celebrities might have impressed him years ago, before the war and before 1997.

Now, he had his mind on other things.

The tour was almost over; they were headed back to Honoloulou. Most of the passengers were gone; only five remained now, evidently making the round trip. He had done the voyage a hundred times. It wasn’t something he _had_ to think about.

Maybe just hadn’t realized the storm had been brewing for a while. Or maybe the storm came out of nowhere.

The first thing that happened was the rain.

It came in a downburst, soaking the dining area.

Gilligan radioed in and told Skipper that he was taking the passengers below deck.

Skipper didn’t even respond.

Lightning and thunder began to take the sky.

They were so few nautical miles from the shore. It should have been so easy to return. But, there were no ports, no safe beaches, Skipper knew.

Then the wind came.

Skipper had never seen anything like it.

He radioed Gilligan for help, and Gilligan immediately appeared in the cockpit. Even in the throes of the storm, the Skipper felt a rush of relief that he had such a loyal first mate.

Still grasping the wheel, he urged Gilligan to radio for help.

They were helpless against the sea.

 

“Oh, what’s happening?” Mary Ann shrunk into the Professor’s arms, despite their earlier discussion.

“It’s fine,” the Professor said, meaning to reassure only her, but temporarily easing the minds of the other three passengers. “It’s just a small storm, we’re down here to keep from getting wet, that’s all.”

“He’s right,” Mr. Howell tried to assure his wife.

“Of cou—” Mrs. Howell began, just before the ship lurched dangerously, sending the passengers stumbling into the port side wall.

“Probably just rerouting,” Professor said, though everyone could hear the waver in his voice.

Again, the ship seemed to leap, sending the passengers floundering.

There was a moment of horrible silence in the cabin, the ran pounding against the deck above, the wind howling like a mad dog, and the S.S. Minnow itself creaking and churning. Professor clung to Mary Ann, Mr. Howell to his estranged wife, and Ginger to an empty bottle of wine.

Another lurch that turned into another and another. Cinematically, the lights and the music flickered off, slow at first, coming on and off, and then definitively, permanently. Soon, the passengers were on the ground, unable to stand without falling.

“What’s going on?” Mary Ann wailed. She sounded very young and very, very scared.

“I’ll sue!” Mr. Howell barked in vain.

“I’m way too sober to die,” Ginger muttered under her breath. The booze had actually been incredible, and she’d taken a little orange pill that made her not want to move at all. In the face of danger, though, it was nowhere near enough.

Maybe an hour went by. Maybe two, maybe six. Each passenger would later surmise a different duration; none were watching their watches or their phones, except to check for service so they could phone for help. (There was none, of course. They were in the middle of the goddamn open ocean.) For everyone, though, the turmoil seemed to last a lifetime.

Had they died then, Mary Ann’s last thoughts would have been of her father’s farm in Kansas, so far away. Below deck, as the storm raged on, she thought of how they would miss her, how she would miss them, wherever she went. Here, she had tried being adventurous, travelling to Hawaii, and, she thought dispiritedly.

And as Professor held her, he felt a tremendous wave of guilt. It was his fault Mary Ann was here. It was _his_ fault she would probably die minutes after being rejected. And how would he himself be remembered? An overworked professor who barely knew his students or his coworkers, who had made no real contributions to science. If he’d believed in a god, he would have prayed for more time.

Thurston Howell III. He was in his fifties, but he might as well have been twenty. He had no children, no close friends, and no real legacy. In that moment, he didn’t even have his money or his reputation. All he had was the woman he’d been foisted into a marriage with, a woman he’d scarcely seen in the past thirty years.

Lovey Wentworth-Howell remembered the vast expanse of the ocean even her husband had admired so recently, so fondly, imagined how the waves would certainly rush up to swallow all seven people on the Minnow. Money was useless against the storm. Even the Captain and first mate’s efforts were surely fruitless. Lovey Howell was powerless.

Ginger Grant? She wondered what she was supposed to do in a situation like this. Was she one to cry or wail? Or was she more the stoic type? She pondered the questions as the ship rocked violently. It seemed very important, suddenly, that she not think of Louise from _Power Fantasy_ or Hallowell from _Bimbofication._ Her last thought would have been simply the words _Ginger Guggenheimer,_ a name she’d barely thought of since her she began using a stage name so many years ago.

And then there was the crew.

The first mate was far from mighty or fearless in the face of death. He was quaking, quite literally, in his boots. He was far too young to die. He wanted to _live._

The Skipper kept his fears at bay. The truth was that the world had little to offer him anymore. Everything seemed _tired_ , tedious, depressing, and yet life had carried on for decades. If he ever got home safely, Skipper would find himself going through the torturous motions, sailing back and forth, living only in memories. If he died? If he died, the Skipper hoped he would see his children again. He hoped vehemently that he would see his son and daughter in some afterlife, that they were happy somewhere else, that they weren’t tortured on this earth.

And yet, he had a responsibility. He was responsible for the Howells, for Ginger Grant, for Mary Ann Summers, for Professor Hinkley. Most importantly, he was responsible for Gilligan.

He couldn’t live with himself if he let something happen to Gilligan, too.

The ship set ground before dawn, the world a velvet black, illuminated only when lightning struck in the distance.

The storm was behind them, and the world was silent and dark.

“Gilligan.”

Gilligan pried his hands off the transmitter, which he’d been using to try to guide Skipper away from the storm and toward the harbor.

Evidently, it hadn’t worked.

He wobbled as he made his way to the Skipper, arms out to ensure he didn’t crash into anything on his way.

“Skipper?”

A light came on in the cockpit: Skipper had found a flashlight.

“Emergency kit,” Skipper told him before handing Gilligan the second flashlight. “Bring this to the passengers and tell them we’ve run aground, but we’ll be found soon.” He rustled around in the kit, drudged out five blankets. “They can get some rest. We have the AIS and a transmitter. Help should be here by morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Gilligan?”

“Yes, Skipper?”

“Don’t go outside.”

 

Had they died during the storm, perhaps the passengers would have died with clear minds, hard truths, but utter understanding. They had been resigned to death just hours ago, and yet the new certainty of life was disorienting.

They had lived. They had a flashlight, blankets, and the first mate.

There was hope below the deck of the ship, despite the vast unknown outside, despite the dread that rose in their chests when the silence outside was broken. When, far away, a cry echoed from outside. A low, somber howl that rang in the castaways’ ears long after the world was once again silent.


	2. Static

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the long-awaited “episode” two! This is… I don’t know what. Get ready to explore the island! Remember to look for references to the original show and comment with all the ones you caught. And thank you for reading, to those of you who are actually putting up with whatever this is!

**102: "Static"**

The castaways watched the sun rise from the still-damp deck of the ship. The tables from the night before had surely launched off the ship, become lost to the sea. The chairs remaining were leaning haphazardly, caught in the Minnow’s railing, the picture of chaos, turmoil.

There were times in the night when they were sure that they had travelled to the end of the world, that they were in a place where sound and sight did not truly exist—but then the animals would rustle outside, the flashlight would flicker.

And now, the sky broke into a maternal pink, and the color practically sang across the beach.

They were alive, and the white noise that had clouded their senses all night had a reasonable explanation.

Static from the transmitter was humming from the cockpit.

They should have been rescued by now. And yet, Skipper hadn’t been able to so much as make contact with the harbor.

He had counted on the automatic identification system at first, believed it would send their location—whatever it was—back to Honolulu. It was for emergencies, for exactly this kind of situation, for search and rescue, and yet it seemed not to be working.

Skipper wondered how small its range was.

The transmitter wasn’t working, and he couldn’t fathom why. It was designed to work over long distances… How far could they have possibly been blown off course? Skipper thought back into that endless night, the eternity they’d spent being rocked by the waves, how long their fate had been in the hands of Kanaloa.

Regardless, the fact was that the transmitter wasn’t working, the AIS wasn’t working, and as far as the Skipper knew, no one knew where they’d landed. Hell, _he_ didn’t even know where they’d landed. Someone would have to tell the passengers.

The boat creaked as Skipper walked over its slanted floor to get break the news. Of course, the news went over like a ton of bricks.

The silence after Skipper explained the situation was palpable, thick, miserable.

“Did you try turning the transmitter off and then back on again?” Gilligan was the first to speak, slowly and unsurely.

“Yes, Gilligan, I tried turning the transmitter off and then back on again,” Skipper said shortly.

“I—I don’t understand…” the little girl, Mary Ann, stuttered. “Is… Is anyone coming for us? Are we lost?

“I’m not sure where we’ve landed,” the Skipper admitted. “There’s a chance that we’ve washed up on an unpopular beach on one of the populated Hawaiian islands.”

“Well, what’s the _alternative?_ ” Mr. Howell asked, dread in his voice.

“You don’t really believe that we’ve washed up on the shore of an uncharted island, do you?” the Professor asked. One arm was pulling Mary Ann close.

“It’s not likely,” the Skipper lied. “Right now, Gilligan and I are going to walk the shoreline and look for signs of civilization, try to figure out where we are.”

“We are?” the first mate asked nervously. Wandering outside the ship felt like a dangerous endeavor. Even in the damp and the dark, it was better inside the ship.

“We are,” the Skipper declared, holding up a knapsack. “With any luck, we’ll be back soon.” He turned to the passengers. “Please don’t move. Stay put; we don’t know what’s on this island.”

“You think there are wild animals?” Mary Ann asked, scared.

“It’s just a possibility,” the Skipper assured her, “but your safety is our top priority.”

“What about _our_ safety?” Gilligan whispered, earning himself a glare from the Skipper.

“We should be back soon.” Then, handing a walkie-talkie to the Professor, he said, “If you need anything or just need to check up, use this. You know how to use a two-way radio?”

“Of course,” the Professor said with a nod.

“We’ll radio you as soon as we find anything,” the Skipper said.

And with that, he and Gilligan were making their way through the morning air onto the island.

It was surprisingly chilly when the passengers went back above deck to watch the Skipper and the first mate disappear into the horizon.

“I suppose all there’s left to do is wait,” the Professor said solemnly. He wasn’t sure if he would need this time to clarify that things between himself and Mary Ann were still over, and as he turned to look at her, he realized she’d wandered away from him.

“Are you really Ginger Grant?” Mary Ann was asking the taller and more glamourous woman (the one who was Ginger, not the one who was Mrs. Howell, who is probably taller and more glamorous than Mary Ann as well).

“I am.” Ginger seemed calm, and she spoke with the throaty voice of a sixties movie star. Despite the situation, Mary Ann fluttered with excitement.

“Oh! That’s so exciting! And the Howells are here, too.” Mary Ann leaned in. “What made you decide to come on this trip?”

Of course, Ginger had no real answer to that question. When she’d woken up the morning before, the boarding passes and simply been there. In response, she simply raised an eyebrow and said “Fate, I suppose.”

Mary Ann had her jaw dropped in awe as Ginger spoke. _So wise,_ she thought.

“Do you know where they keep the wine on this ship?”

Mary Ann shook her head. Ginger shrugged and ventured toward the cockpit.

“Is she really that good?” the Professor asked, observing the wonder on Mary Ann’s face.

“Good? She’s a _revelation_ in everything she’s in. Her glare is violence, her joy is love itself…”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Maybe we can—” Mary Ann stopped herself. “Nevermind.”

The Professor glanced over at where Mrs. Howell stood, fanning herself with one hand, looking distraught. “And what of the Howells?” he asked. “It would appear we’ve got nothing but time. I’d be interested in picking their brains regarding issues in economics and sociology. Do you think they’d find that obnoxious?”

“Hard to say. It could be bad if Thurston Howell got angry. I bet everyone’s intimidated to talk to them. They’re the _Howells_.”

 

Down in the cabin, Ginger and Mr. Howell ran into each other in front of the wine rack.

“I have to say, this is a _horribly_ organized event,” Howell said.

Ginger shrugged. “Well, I have a saying. _The customer’s always_ ,” she bent down and started to grab as many bottles as she could carry with one arm, “ _entitled to free booze if they get trapped on a boat against their will_.”

“I’ve never heard that one before.” Mr. Howell chucked. “But I must say, I quite like it.” He grabbed a bottle for himself. “Cheers, darling.”

“Of course.” Ginger opened her bottle with her mouth and clinked it against the millionaire’s.

After taking a swig of his wine, Howell asked, “Say, aren’t you the bimbo from _Bimbofication_?”

“That I am.”

“Oh? You simply _must_ tell me more.”

 

She was leaning against the railing on the Minnow, staring out at the impenetrable jungle when Mary Ann was hit by a wave of fatigue. It occurred to her that she, and likely the others, had only slept in rare, fleeting spells the night before. Below deck, in the dark, she’d heard heavy breathing from indeterminable passengers on and off all night. She herself had probably dozed off a couple of times, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

Mary Ann turned back toward the Professor, who was in the cockpit, fiddling with the transmitter.

“What are you doing?” Mary Ann asked over the static.

“Trying to get the transmitter to work.” Professor furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s strange. This is a high-quality transmitter. It’s designed to be used in case of emergencies, across long distances.”

“Are we out of range?”

“We shouldn’t be.” Professor paused. Then, “I wonder…” He pulled out the two-way radio Skipper had left with him, pressed a few buttons. Static.

“Come in, Skipper. This is Professor Roy Hinkley, calling the Skipper and Gilligan.”

_Static._

“Come in,” he begged again. There was an uncharacteristic note of panic in his voice.

Mary Ann gripped the wall for support. Panic in a man as pragmatic as the Professor was contagious.

Still, nothing.

“This is…” Professor bit his lip. “Our crew might be in trouble.”

“Oh, no.”

“Although…” Then, he broke into a grin. “This could be a good sign!”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, no. This interference on both the transmitter and the two-way radio is likely caused by a jammer somewhere on the island.”

“A jammer?”

“Yes. And if that’s the case, there must be people on the island!”

“Oh! And the Skipper and Gilligan are liable to find them, and we’ll be back home by tomorrow!”

“Best-case scenario,” Professor said cautiously, though he was still grinning. “Let’s not get the other passengers’ hopes up.”

“Right.” Relief warm in her chest, Mary Ann yawned. “I’m going to try to get some shut-eye.” Then, taking a dare, she added, “Care to join me?”

“No, no.” Professor waved a passive hand. “I want to make sure my theory is correct. I’m going to keep calling for the crew, see if the Skipper or the first mate come in.”

And so, in the cool shade below deck, Mary Ann Summers found herself sleeping alone yet again.

 

“I can’t reach the passengers.”

“What?” Skipper turned back from where he was stepping precariously over a cluster of rocks along the shore. Their plan was to walk along the shore until they found someone or something that could help them. If they walked and walked, finding nothing, and eventually made it back to the shipwreck, then they would know that the worst had happened. Then, they would know that they had shipwrecked on a deserted island.

“The walkie talkie’s not working.”

“What do you need to tell them?”

“I’m just checking in, making sure they’re okay. They’re probably hungry.”

“Ok. You’re probably using it wrong.” Skipper crossed the rocks, and grabbed the walkie talkie from Gilligan once they were both on solid ground. He pressed the talk button and spoke clearly into the mouthpiece.

“Come in, Professor Hinkley. This is the Skipper of the S.S. Minnow calling Professor Roy Hinkley.”

Static.

Skipper stared at Gilligan for a moment in disbelief. “Maybe… Maybe they’re resting.” He glanced back the way they’d come. They’d been walking for hours, and it was impossible to tell if they would circle back to the Minnow any time soon. “Still, let’s pick up the pace.”

The sun beat down on the two explorers, making them sweat, use up most of their limited water supply.

“Skipper, I’m thirsty,” Gilligan said a couple hours later.

“We have to ration that water, Gilligan. Hold out for just a little longer, huh?”

“ _Water_ we gonna do when we run out?” Gilligan asked, the bad pun making him actually break into a smile.

Skipper rolled his eyes. “There’s a small desalination device back on the ship. It won’t be much for seven people, but it’s better than nothing.”

Gilligan nodded, wishing he’d brought it with them.

At first glance, a tropical jungle bordering a white-sand ocean shore might seem beautiful, heavenly. In reality, it was stiflingly hot, and while the myriad of blues, whites, and greens seemed dazzling at first, after hours of wandering in the blisteringly hot sun, the colors just became blinding.

So Gilligan thought he was hallucinating when he and the Skipper came upon a beach with a walkway leading up into a jungle.

The walkway was indisputably human-made, had little wooden steps leading up from the beach and into the jungle. It was thoroughly covered in underbrush, but with the aide of the wooden panels, the path was distinguishable.

“Do you see that, too?”

“See what, Gilligan?” Skipper was keeping his eyes on the horizon, always watching where they were going, watching the ground where he was walking, where the beach met the lagoon.

“That!” Gilligan pointed at the little steps.

Skipper looked once, did a double-take. “That’s manmade! Good eye, little buddy!”

Proud, but more than a little apprehensive, Gilligan followed the Skipper up into the jungle. Inside, the intensity of the sun faded immediately. The leaves on the trees formed an impenetrable ceiling, and the world was entirely new. Underbrush and branches reached out to Gilligan, scratched and tickled him, and he held his breath in fear and dread.

Chatter from birds, maybe monkeys, or bugs sounded from all directions. Without the path under his feet, Gilligan was sure he’d become lost.

“Skipper, I think we should get out of here.”

“There might be people,” Skipper said, but he himself sounded unconvinced. “We have to keep moving.”

Gilligan became aware of every twig snapping underfoot, every rustle of leaves from the jungle. It felt like an eternity before the smothering sunlight hit his face again.

“Gilligan…” Skipper started, pulling Gilligan from his intense focus on the sounds of the jungle. Smiling, Skipper pointed ahead.

They had wandered into a clearing.

A clearing lined with little wooden huts.

Suddenly elated, Gilligan and Skipper rushed up to the first hut in their line of sight and pounded on the door.

A beat.

No answer.

“Hello?” Skipper called out. “Anyone home?”

“Hello?” Gilligan echoed.

When no answer came, Gilligan and Skipper fumbled around each other, frantically trying to get to one of the other huts.

Six huts, well-built and still-standing, but there were no answers.

After knocking on them all, Skipper finally tried to just open one and waltz inside.

All were locked.

Feeling defeated again, Gilligan trudged back to the Skipper.

“We’ve got to get these doors open,” Skipper said. Already, Gilligan could see, he was making a plan. Gilligan tried to follow suit.

“Maybe the others could help us?” Gilligan suggested, and the Skipper’s face suggested that it wasn’t a half bad idea.

“Alright.” Skipper nodded, glancing back at the way they’d come. “Okay. We’ll keep moving forward and either hit civilization or circle back to the Minnow. If we are alone here…” Here, the Skipper hesitated. “If we are alone here, maybe we can salvage some supplies from these huts to help us out until the rescue plane comes.” Gilligan admired the Skipper’s confidence; a rescue plan _would be coming_ if they couldn’t find civilization. “If not, we’ll hit civilization and rescue ourselves.”

Gilligan nodded, and the two headed back to the shore to press onward.

 

“They’re talking about us.”

“What?”

Mrs. Howell held up the one-way radio, whose transmission was crystal clear. Professor’s eyes widened.

“That’s…” He snatched up the two-way radio and tried it again. “Skipper, come in Skipper!”

Mrs. Howell knitted her brows. “Really, you’re not even listening to the report.” She turned up the volume for the Professor to hear, since the two-way radio was giving off mere static.

“…although the marina has been attempting make contact with the Minnow since it failed to harbor last night, and has sent out a rescue party, there is still no word on the fate of the passengers of the S.S. Minnow.”

“It’s…” Professor started.

“It’s embarrassing!” Mrs. Howell cried. “They spent the same amount of time describing my husband and I as they did describing everyone else! I mean, I can’t imagine that the public cares about you or that little farm girl as much as they do us.”

Professor had no time to respond to this insult before he realized what this meant. “There’s no jammer.”

“Pardon?”

“I thought there was a jammer around here that was keeping us from getting in touch with the Skipper and Gilligan—”

“The crew! That’s right! They should hardly matter as much to the media as much as a Howell—”

“Please, try to focus,” Professor nearly snarled. “The Skipper and Gilligan could be in danger.”

Mrs. Howell thought for a moment. Then, “Better them than us.”

Professor pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Still, she had a point. Not all the castaways should be risking their lives in the wilderness. Someone would have to stay with the boat. “Very well. You and your husband should stay on board. The girls and I will form a rescue expedition and search for the crew. Stay here and keep an eye out for ships or planes that come to rescue us. And keep listening to that radio!”

Professor was off to gather Mary Ann and Ginger before she could object.

 

“This was a terrible idea,” Ginger grumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Mary Ann was reluctant to disagree with the Professor, but she nodded nonetheless. “We won’t be much help to the Skipper and Gilligan if we collapse from exhaustion.”

“That’s… That’s true.” Professor had realized as soon as they’d left the Minnow that they didn’t know which way Gilligan and the Skipper had gone, that they would be wandering blind.

Hopefully this place was either small or civilized.

“Alright.” Professor stopped and looked around at the shore in front of them. “Let’s build a fire to keep animals and the cold away if night falls, and then get some rest.”

“Sorry, I don’t know if you two were brought up in the S _tone Age,_ but I don’t know how to make a fire,” Ginger said sourly.

“I’ve made a few on the farm,” Mary Ann offered. “But, then, always with matches. Anyone have any?”

“I used to be a scoutmaster,” Professor said proudly. “Gather some small leaves and twigs and then work on getting bigger branches. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Once the fire was roaring, the three castaways didn’t have time to marvel at their small feat before they were asleep in the sand.

 

“Honestly. No fresh beds, no meal service all day.” Mr. Howell gave an exasperated huff. He and his wife had wordlessly slept the rest of the day away, and now the beach was growing dark and the Howells restless. “I’m firing my assistant. I _paid_ for this! I don’t care if we are shipwrecked, I expect at least some degree of service and care.”

“Agreed,” Mrs. Howell said with a wave of her hand, looking from the jungle to the sea. “And it was very pretty at first, but this landscape can hardly make up for the utter atrocity of everything else.” Despite the fact that the Professor had told her to continue listening to the radio, she’d turned it off after listening to the financial report, unamused by the rest of the day’s news.

“When the Captain gets back, I’ll have a few choice words for him,” Mr. Howell said angrily.

“ _If_ the Captain gets back,” Mrs. Howell added.

“I suppose it’s entirely possible that that irresponsible sailor has run away to avoid taking responsibility for this wreck…”

For the first time in years, the Howells looked at each other with an understanding, both believing that the crew had mislead them, both angry and uncomfortable.

“Well, we simply can’t let him or the skinny one get away with it,” Mrs. Howell said. “They’ll be hearing from our lawyers when we get back home.”

 

“Gilligan!” Gilligan was pulled out of autopilot by the Skipper’s hands on his shoulders. “Gilligan, look!”

Skipper pointed above the trees to where a plume of smoke was rising up into the sky. “Fire!” Gilligan cried. “We should call 911!”  Gilligan frantically patted his pockets, in search for his cell phone, before Skipper smacked him on the head with his hat, snapping Gilligan out of it.

“We can’t call the fire department,” he spat. “That fire means there’s other people out there!”

“Well, let’s go!” He and Skipper fumbled through the forest, trying to find the people who lit the fire before the sky went completely dark.

“HELP! HELP!”

Deep in the jungle, Gilligan and Skipper froze.

“Who was that?”

“Didn’t sound like anyone from the Minnow,” Skipper said, looking frightened. “M-Maybe it’s the other people—”

“HELP! HELP!”

“We better go help,” Gilligan said, his voice a whisper.

Skipper nodded wordlessly and the two wandered for a moment, apprehensively looking for someone—who, they had no idea.

Skipper stopped, and Gilligan followed. They looked around for a moment and Skipper, reluctant to continue aimlessly through the jungle, finally spoke. “There’s no one…”

Skipper silenced himself at the sound of leaves rustling.

Overhead?

Gilligan looked up, but saw nothing. “What was tha—”

Before Gilligan could finish, a searing pain descended on him. Something sharp—like a claw—raked against his scalp. He felt himself scram, and flailed his arms in the air, tried to stop his assailant.

It seemed to be everywhere at once, attacking his head, his arms, his shoulders, his back…

Skipper let out a strangled cry. He was being attacked too, Gilligan realized.

“Run!” Skipper cried, and Gilligan immediately obliged.

They tore through the jungle, Gilligan on Skipper’s tail, tripping and scratching himself on the underbrush, still unable to see his attacker in the flurry of pain and leaves.

Gilligan felt his shoe hit a root, or maybe a rock, and he went down. Hard. Both arms stretched forward, he hit Skipper in the back, and the tow of them went tumbling down though the dirt and underbrush.

When at last they braced themselves and stopped the dropping, their attackers were nowhere to be found.

And when they looked up again, they realized that the smoke they’d been following earlier had vanished.

Gilligan felt himself shiver; the jungle was not only cold at night, but he was acutely aware of how bad the situation really was.

That they were lost and alone, probably on a desert isle, with someone bloodthirsty.

 

When the three castaways woke on the dark beach, the fire had long since gone out, the air was cold, and the sky was dark.

Mary Ann held her breath until the noises from the jungle stopped.

“Did you hear that?” She rested one hand on the Professor’s arm, and his presence immediately made her feel better.

“Animals,” he whispered.

“Sounds like they’re killing each other.” Ginger was awake, too. It was strange to see a movie star waking up with sandy hair, eyes bleary. Although Ginger didn’t look glamorous, Mary Ann was certain that she looked worse, and even in the dark, she tried to smooth her own dark hair down.

A twig snapped in the jungle and the three of them jumped.

Professor got to his feet and motioned for the girls to do the same. He drew his pocket knife, and Mary Ann wondered if they were in real danger.

“Why am I here?” Ginger muttered. “And why didn’t I bring the wine?”

The three, led by the Professor, stepped toward the jungle.

Silence.

“Hello?” Ginger called, only to be immediately shushed by the rest.

Then, “Hello?”

Like an echo, an identical cry sounded from the darkness. Ginger’s eyes widened, Mary Ann stumbled backward, while the Professor leaned in with interest and fear.

“Hello?” he repeated.

“Hello?” Ginger’s voice called back.

For a moment, all they could do was stare at each other before Ginger shrugged and motioned toward the jungle.

Professor led them forward again.

The light from the moon was thoroughly blocked out by the treetops, and the three quickly became too blind and afraid to move.

After a beat of silence, the voice called again.

“Hello?”

The castaways didn’t dare move.

“Hello?” This time, it was the Professor’s voice that sounded, and Mary Ann felt him flinch.

The sound of leaves rustling and branches crackling began, and moved closer, slowly.

One of them made the executive decision to run, and the others followed.

Tearing through the jungle in the dark was no easy feat, and it became even more horrifying when she heard more footsteps, more branches cracking, faster and faster, until the Professor knocked into something with a thwack.

Behind him, the girls stumbled, and Mary Ann felt her arms reach out to touch something fleshy and wet.

_Blood_ , her nose told her.

Before she could open her mouth to scream, someone else did it for her.

Not Ginger. Not the Professor.

“ _Heeeeeeeelp!_ ”

That little first mate, she realized.

“Gilligan?” the Professor asked, relieved.

When Gilligan did not stop shouting, the Skipper’s voice chimed in, furious. “ _Gilligan!_ ”

The sound of Skipper smacking Gilligan with either his hat or his hand, and then Gilligan was silenced.

“Who all is there?” Skipper asked. “Didn’t I tell you not to leave the ship?”

“The radio wasn’t working. We thought you might be in trouble,” the Professor explained.

“You are, aren’t you?” Mary Ann asked suddenly, wiping the blood off of her hands.

“We were attacked,” the Skipper started.

“Attacked?” the three others echoed, with varying levels of concern.

“By someone, I think—”

Again came rustling of branches, snapping of twigs.

The Skipper and Ginger cursed under their breaths, Gilligan and Mary Ann shrunk back, and the Professor drew a deep breath.

“Captain?”

The voice was unmistakably Mr. Howell’s. The Skipper started to move, but the Professor reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Stop,” he whispered. “They can imitate voices.”

If there had been any light in the jungle—if Skipper still had the flashlight, he had turned it off long before the two parties had collided—the five castaways would have looked from face to face, guessing what to do next.

“Captain?”

“We left the Howells on the boat,” Mary Ann whispered, praying the voice would silence itself.

“Come on, now, we can _hear_ you!”

“No, you can’t,” Gilligan called.

He evidently didn’t think well under pressure.

The footsteps drew nearer, until Mr. Howell’s voice, close enough to kill, cried, “ _Aha!_ ”

It was the Skipper who shoved him and started to call for the others to run.

“ _Really_ ,” came Mrs. Howell’s voice. “This is _unacceptable_. This is _beyond_ bad service, poor planning, or lack of respect. This is a _crime_!”

Of course, the castaways attempting to run stopped.

“And we’ll see to it that you, Captain, are put in jail for _life_!” Mr. Howell threatened.

“I think that’s really them,” Gilligan whispered.

“Well, who were you expecting?” Mrs. Howell asked. “A getaway driver?”

“Quiet,” Professor urged. “There’s something in the jungle.”

“What?” Mr. Howell’s voice was not lowered, but he must have taken the Professor seriously, because he sounded afraid.

“No, no. It was just the Skipper and Gilligan we were hearing,” Mary Ann said, trying to convince herself, despite the echoic cry and the blood she’d felt on Skipper. Maybe it truly _had_ been an echo; maybe Skipper and Gilligan had just had a bad fall.

“No,” Skipper said. “Gilligan and I were _attacked_.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just branches or something?” Mary Ann asked hopefully.

Skipper’s sigh was grim.

At that moment, the same howl from the night before crossed through the air, through the branches and the trees, long and desperate.

“We’re gonna die here,” Ginger whispered flatly when it was over.

“Come on,” the Skipper nervously grabbed Gilligan’s hand. Gilligan grabbed Mary Ann, who grabbed the Professor, who grabbed Ginger, who grabbed Mr. Howell, who grabbed Mrs. Howell, and the whole chain of castaways began navigating through the dark. “There’s something you need to see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! Please leave a review if you enjoyed it. Or even if you didn’t. Whatever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for willingly reading this trash fire!!!!! Remember to comment with any references to the original show that you caught (or whatever else you want to say) and I'll be eternally grateful!


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